Wynn sat in his Humvee, door ajar, reviewing notes. Cooke walked up unnoticed and leaned in. The two men’s faces were within inches of each other. Cooke spoke low and slow, as if he worried that too much enthusiasm would spook the prey, relaying what he had heard from the egg lady. On hearing the news, Wynn churned in thought. Cooke looked like a man thinking he was nearing retribution.
“It’s not far from here, Sir,” Cooked added, “at most maybe five clicks due west. We can get there in less than thirty minutes.”
Both men realized that in this environment five kilometers was far, and it would take longer than that to get there.
“Maybe. But it’s a spread-out place we don’t know.” Wynn replied, uncertain. “We haven’t been there and know next to nothing about it. I think the whole place, the factory complex, is about a kilometer long. Big building and lots of little buildings with open spaces around those big smoke stacks. Could be IEDs all over.”
Initially, when Cooke had told him what the egg lady had reported, Wynn’s hopes had surged, like an athlete sensing triumph—finally a solid clue on another PFA location. But caution and deliberation crept back in, and he let Cooke talk without showing his own hand. They had to get this right.
“We can cordon the whole damn thing. Get the QRF out to reinforce us,” Cooke offered.
“That would take a lot of men. Don’t think we can get the QRF for this. No imminent danger. You know they rarely scramble the QRF simply because of a suspected insurgent position. No shots have even been fired.”
If they went for it now, they would have to go it alone, Wynn thought. He’d need permission from Baumann to leave his battlespace again. Probably could get that. Doubtful about the QRF. They would need more than just the egg lady’s second-hand information.
“Problem is, only one road most of the way out there,” Cooke continued. “If they have any spotters, and they surely do, they would see us coming.”
“Yeah. It’s a single two-lane hardball. You go out that road and the brick factory is your destination. Everybody knows it,” Wynn replied. “They would see us for miles.”
“What about from the north, from Route Orange? Must be access from up there,” Cooke said.
“It’s also way out of our area. It’s not in anybody’s active sector. We’ve never been there.”
Reports from the three other platoon trucks came in sequence over the radio. The buzz and beeping sound from all the electronics was comforting. The market patrol had all remounted their Humvees, except for Cooke, and maintained security. Wynn and Cooke said nothing for a moment, contemplating their options in heavy silence. Thoughts in the mind are like boats on water; they never stay completely still. Ideas tumble over assumptions. Uncertainty surrounds everything. Swells of emotions jostle analysis. And their boat was riding the edge of a storm.
He remembered the platoon’s hasty warehouse mission. They had busted a torture operation, but if they’d been more deliberate and developed the situation, they might have captured or killed more insurgents.
“The advantage to a quick strike is always surprise,” Cook argued. “If we wait or do nothing, the opportunity could be lost.”
Wynn hesitated, still deliberating, wanting to be selective in his words. Cooke waited on the decision. The rest of the Wolfhounds, nineteen men in four up-armored Humvees, engines running, waited too.
“Don’t think anybody suspected you of getting important information from her, do you?” Wynn asked, referring to the egg lady, and changing the subject slightly.
“Never sure, Sir. Doubt it. We chitchatted as long with several vendors. And we don’t always talk to the same ones.”
Wynn had an uneasy feeling every time an informant told them anything. The informant inevitably was playing with fire. Retaliation by insurgents could be brutal. Torture. Murdered families. Beheadings. However, getting information from cooperative locals was the only way. Without the Iraqis taking risks, it was impossible to make gains against the insurgency.
He could call CPT Baumann and discuss the whole thing with him. Then however it turned out, the decision would get made.
“Let me call the CO. See what he thinks.”
“OK,” Cooke agreed.
Cooke stepped away, separating himself from Wynn’s pending conversation with Baumann, but still close enough to hear. He’d given his professional opinion and now seemed resigned to any decision. Wynn picked up the radio to call the commander and looked at Cooke. SFC Cooke, wearing full battle rattle and protective glasses, looked like a gigantic insect ready to strike. He walked around to the driver’s side of D21, opened the door, and gave Gung a playful punch in the arm.
“No Purple Heart today, Sarge,” Gung protested. Gung’s gloved hands gripped the steering wheel firmly. He wasn’t in the debate and didn’t appear to care one way or the other. He was ready either way.
Within minutes, Wynn had Baumann on the radio. The commander had the same view that Wynn did. Don’t be hasty. They should develop the situation more. Do deliberate planning. Baumann felt they would be able to get eyes on the site with UAVs. So that was it.
Wynn signaled to Cooke to come back over, and told him.
“We need better Intel to confirm. Do deliberate planning, the CO said. We can’t rush out of sector without better Intel. To make this work we have to be sure. Then plan an operation. We rush and we could ruin it. If something’s there, we should find out exactly where and what. Then strike. Strike smart and hard.”
Cooke stayed quiet and chewed his disappointment.
Wynn took another look at the computer map, then continued. “I’ll put it all into HQ on the way back. The CO thinks he can make a UAV flyover happen. See if we can get a read on whether someone is really camping out in the brick factory. Maybe specify the location for us. See what we’re up against. Then he’ll decide what kind of force package to put together.”
Wynn saw Cooke wasn’t happy with the decision. He was a man of action. Win with boldness. No taking a knee when the fight was on. But they had to be smart before they could fight well. Baumann thought the same. Aerial surveillance could see the whole complex, see evidence of people, and maybe confirm any vehicular traffic.
Cooke was still unconvinced.
“Sergeant Cooke, you said yourself it would be hard to get out there undetected. Since we have suspicions, but know next to nothing about the factory, we have to be careful. Tip them off or don’t find them and we might fuck up our chances.”
Cooke puckered his lips. He looked down, as if studying his boots, considering what Wynn had said. Deep creases lined his forehead like lost opportunity marks. Sweat glistened on his temples and jaw, soaking his helmet chin strap.
“Roger,” Cooke blurted out finally, the 14 years of military subordination and loyalty evident.
“Let’s get back, Sergeant Cooke, and get this thing rolling.”
“Ever gotten your ass kicked, Sir?” Cooke asked Wynn, in the messhall about two hours later.
It was 1935, and the two men were having dinner together.
“No,” Wynn answered, quashing a grin.
Cooke said, “Had mine kicked four or five times. The first time, I remember it well, was in the second grade. A fifth-grade kid yanked me up on the playground and knee-butted me to the head. Almost knocked me out. Growing up in Milwaukee, the rivalry between the Packers and the Bears was fierce. The biggest kid in the fifth grade was a dumb Bears fan. And you know me, I wore a Packers jersey two or three times a week already in the second grade. That was my first experience with bullies. Haven’t had any tolerance for bullies since.”
Wynn watched Cooke take a deep breath. His massive chest looked like a sea turtle shell. Few bullies would mess with Cooke today.
“And these terrorist motherfuckers,” Cooke continued, “Deliberately killing women and children—they’re just the latest incarnation of bullies.”
Wynn caught something in his peripheral visi
on. Gung headed towards them.
“They say we’re the world’s policeman,” Cooke added. “And, by God, the world still does need policing.”
“Sir, the CO is calling for you,” Gung said, now standing beside Wynn’s table.
“Where is he?”
“Back at the company, Sir. He said find you and send you back.”
“OK, thanks.”
Wynn turned to Cooke and said, “I bet it has to do with the brick factory. Hope they got the fly over.”
“Me too,” Cooke replied. “We gotta nail that bitch.”
Wynn admired Cooke’s can-do attitude. Ever ready to go right back at it. The guy was like a fullback who always wants the ball.
“I’ll go see him now, see the latest.” Wynn left. Cooke remained seated, not ready to leave. Wynn sensed Cooke’s eyes on him, a sharp hopefulness in his face. He remembered Cooke wanting to go straight to the brick factory earlier. Wynn, too, was anxious for the mission. Either the UAV over-flight hadn’t happened or it had. And if what the bird saw in the brick factory confirmed possible insurgent activity, that meant a mission to investigate on the ground would follow shortly. He hoped the Wolfhounds would be part of it.
“I’ll be back in my hooch by 2100, Sir,” Cooke, looking at his watch, called after Wynn. “Come see me after. Meantime I’ll knock on some doors.”
By his comment, Wynn knew Cooke intended to go check on the platoon’s soldiers. Cooke, at night, would regularly go door-to-door of the Wolfhound trailers, making sure the men were OK. Wynn thought again about Kale. Maybe Cooke would get some one-on-one time with him.
It was grey dusk outside now, nearly 2000. A thin stripe of orange lay on the horizon, the sun’s final lingering kiss. Wynn watched the slowly sinking orange as he made his way westward across the gravel-covered parking lot and the dirt road bisecting the FOB to the passage leading down the long row of company headquarters buildings. Fine powder from the road surface wafted upward, filling his nostrils with a dry chalk-like scent.
All four battalion companies’ headquarters stood side-by-side on this road. Wynn hurried, pondering options the whole way. If insurgents were hiding in the brick factory, how heavily would they be armed? What would Baumann plan? A night operation?
Wynn’s men had been provisionally released and not scheduled to meet up again until 0630 tomorrow. If something had to happen earlier, he’d have to get the word out. By time he got back, his men might be in bed.
Wynn arrived at D Company headquarters and went inside. Baumann’s office door was closed. Wynn knocked, then opened the door.
“Hold on. Need another minute here,” Baumann shouted from inside as soon as Wynn cracked the door. As he shut the door again, Wynn could see First Sergeant Keith inside. The crusty Keith had an exasperated, plaintive look on his face, as if he was asking for something he knew he couldn’t get. Wynn suspected Keith might be talking to the CO about the unit leave schedule. Soldiers had been rotating out for their two-week vacations back home. Baumann had recently re-juggled the list. That had caused grumbling in the ranks. The numbers of soldiers that could be gone at any one time was restricted, and the guys didn’t understand the timing. Each man wanted leave when he wanted it. Of course that couldn’t happen. Manpower had to remain sufficient to take care of all missions. The approved ratios meant the leave schedule would drag out past the ninth month in country for some of the soldiers. Keith had taken it on as a personal project to get everyone out and back before the battalion reached its eight-month mark in Iraq. Baumann argued his hands were tied.
In less than a minute, Baumann opened the door. “Come on in,” he said to Wynn. The First Sergeant walked out without comment, expressionless.
Wynn saw agitation on his commander’s face. Baumann’s day never ended. Men constantly came to him with problems, looking for decisions. Wynn had more than enough to keep him busy with just one platoon. He shut the door.
“Battalion sent a UAV over the brick factory,” Baumann said straightaway. “It looks like we’ve got bad dudes there. You guys did well. I got to watch some video stream at the TOC earlier. People appear holed-up in the old brick kilns, and maybe in the big building. A couple vehicles parked. And two guys carried some heavy stuff wrapped in blankets out of a car, possibly weapons, inside one of the kilns. Another two guys outside holding AKs. Not a typical family dinner party. Had the look of the usual thugs. The place definitely needs checking out.”
Wynn hadn’t said anything. He listened to Baumann, wondering what would come next.
“Battalion will let me know if they see anything else. They’re going to make several more over flights tonight, and give us any updates. I’m going to sit down now and plan the operation. I want you and the rest of the platoon leaders to come back here at 2100.”
“Roger, Sir,” Wynn said. “I’ll be back then.”
In a few minutes, Wynn was at Cooke’s trailer. Wynn knocked. No answer. He waited by the door a moment. He couldn’t call Cooke on the radio; Wynn’s radio was recharging in his trailer. Only Wynn had an Iraqi cell phone. Cooke must be out doing his door knocking, so Wynn started walking around the company trailer area to see if he would see or hear Cooke. The area was quiet. He saw several men playing cards between the trailers. He walked past the three quads of trailers where his men had assigned quarters and every door was shut. Dim interior light leaked out of curtained windows and between cracks in doors. Cooke might be inside a trailer doing footlocker counseling with a platoon soldier. Wynn decided not to interrupt. These guys needed all the close attention their platoon sergeant could give them. He decided to leave a note under Cooke’s door and went back to Cooke’s trailer. Taking a notepad out of his shoulder pocket, he wrote: OPORD at 2100. LOOKS LIKE IT’S A GO. WILL COME BY AFTER. He slid the note under the bottom of Cooke’s trailer door.
Cooke had about finished his rounds. He’d tried to share a gut-check moment with most of the men. Some had welcomed him with distant questioning eyes, stares of men grown tired by unsatisfactory waiting, the desire for something better and more conclusive radiating out of their bones. His response to each man was a positive phrase or two, intended as verbal caffeine, or maybe a head rub—he’d grind his big brown fingers into the man’s scalp—hoping to impart motivation by physical contact. He loved his men. He loved leading them. It was a kind of warrior’s romance.
He’d spotted Kale and Moose walking back from the latrine to their trailers. Cooke was pleased to see them together. The pair stopped when they saw him. Cooke greeted them. “How are my two favorite heathens tonight?” Neither man responded right away.
After long seconds of motionless dancing, while Cooke sampled their vitals with his eyes, Kale blurted, “Moose needed an escort to the little boys’ facilities.”
“That’s bullshit,” Moose retorted, and looked at Kale in amazement.
All three men laughed.
Cooke toyed with them a few moments longer; the exchange of words an obvious attempt by him to take a sample and check reflexes. He wanted them to know, and they knew. Cooke was happy Kale had played a comic card. Things seemed stabler. Reading Moose’s eyes, Cooke concluded that Moose sensed that the platoon sergeant wanted a personal report on Kale.
“Truth is, Sarge, Kale don’t need me to help him pull up his pants anymore. And if he asked me to pull them down, I wouldn’t fucking do it,” Moose said.
Cooke had his answer. Kale remained stable, if guarded.
No man wanted to be on the ground when others around him were walking erect. He felt Kale would keep walking.
Now Cooke sat in the trailer shared by Turnbeck, Pauls and Singleton, and listened to them brief him on the readiness of their trucks and their men. Each man had extra gravity in his voice and Cooke sensed the approach of something absolutely inevitable. He couldn’t stop it, and didn’t want to. Wynn would be back soon. They would have orders for an operation to the brick factory. Then, when the designated time came
, the platoon would mount up, the gates of FOB Apache would open, their convoy would ride out, and the men and their equipment would again form into a type of martial projectile to be thrown by U.S. Army at a hostile world.
“Super,” Cooke said, when his NCOs had finished. “This much I know: whatever they have us do, every man will put his whole ass into it.”
Everybody would be OK. Those fuckers in PFA better be saying their prayers. He slid his hand into his left pants pocket and felt Ramirez’s name tape.
24
CPT Baumann had decided to lead the brick factory operation himself, using 2nd and 3rd platoons. Third platoon would take a blocking position south of the brick factory complex, and provide covering fire. The Wolfhounds would conduct the raid.
One platoon of soldiers didn’t give Baumann the manpower he needed to dominate the area. Attempting the operation with too few men increased the likelihood of failure. Baumann wanted the extra assurance of larger numbers. This meant that D Company would have two platoons outside their assigned sectors for the duration of the operation.
After Baumann’s initial comments, Wynn and the others waited in silence while their commander made a final check of his notes and prepared to brief the Operations Order. Baumann now wore glasses, magnifying his blue eyes and making him look older and more intelligent. His prominent forehead had chased his hairline rearward more rapidly than his youth would have suggested. His large mouth and puffy cheeks were swollen like a boxer’s. He must have gotten a haircut today; his remaining hair was mere stubble, giving him the look of a man expecting a very serious appointment. Sometimes Baumann acted aloof, but Wynn didn’t think this was the impression he intended to convey. Wynn believed the captain was a fair man. He was thoughtful. He wasn’t a screamer. Didn’t micromanage. A bit distant perhaps, but fair. The same general description had been used about Wynn.
Princes of War Page 28